He settled in the Soda Springs Valley,
and there persisted in spite of the devastating forays of that
Apache. After a time he owned all the wells and springs in the
valley, and so, naturally, controlled the grazing on that
extensive free range. Once a day the cattle, in twos and threes,
in bands, in strings, could be seen winding leisurely down the
deep-trodden and converging trails to the water troughs at the
home ranch, there leisurely to drink, and then leisurely to drift
away into the saffron and violet and amethyst distances of the
desert. At ten other outlying ranches this daily scene was
repeated. All these cattle belonged to the man, great by reason
of his priority in the country, the balance of his even
character, and the grim determination of his spirit.
When he had first entered Soda Springs Valley his companions had
called him Buck Johnson. Since then his form had squared, his
eyes had steadied to the serenity of a great authority, his
mouth, shadowed by the moustache and the beard, had closed
straight in the line of power and taciturnity. There was about
him more than a trace of the Spanish. So now he was known as
Senor Johnson, although in reality he was straight American
enough.
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